Hypostradic
by Chairman-Meowith
Summary: A little tiny accident befalls Greg on the way to collect more information about a suspect. That accident may be falling into freezing waters and almost dying, So I lied it wasn't a small accident at all. Anyway the good doctor fishes him out eventually. Also subplot, Sherlock solves a case. Even some humour in the last chapter. Reviews? :D
1. The Carrion Killer

Greg put the phone back on it's receiver, rather harder than was necessary. The fourth murder in two weeks, M.O. Exactly the same. Even Sherlock was having a hard time catching the culprit. Every body exactly the same. No deviation at all, nothing Sherlock could use. Greg hadn't slept properly in several days and it showed in his dishevelled appearance, bags under his eyes, rumpled hair, tie askew. He desperately needed to catch the bastard. The press had already nicknamed him for God's sake. The Carrion Killer. What a stupid name, Greg wondered who they'd left in charge for _that_ one. Although, it wasn't entirely inaccurate. The killer went after old ladies, two had been in the final stages of cancer, one who had a severe heart condition and the final woman, who seemed to have been fine. It was all incredibly frustrating. All had their throats cut with a knife that the killer brought with him and took when he left. There was no sign of sexual assault. Unsurprising, he thought, given their age. The killer had also, more disturbingly, carved a clumsy heart into each of their chests. Greg stared at the case files, rereading them for the umpteenth time, before stuffing them back into his desk and grinding the heels of his hands into his face. He decided that he would go to 221B the moment work got off and pay Sherlock a visit to see how the case was going. Greg leaned back in his chair, reconsidering. It was a sign of how tired he was that he hadn't immediately jumped to the possibility of sneaking off for a few moments to see the Consulting Detective. After all, it was work related. He just needed to make sure Sally and Anderson didn't see him slipping off. Lestrade stood, opening the door a crack and peering out to assure himself that neither of them were hanging around. He wasn't in the mood to listen to them whine about The Freak and avoiding them was much easier. He opened the door fully and strode towards the exit, looking as weary as a man can while walking quickly.

"Sir there you are, I was meaning to ask you-" Greg shut his eyes tightly for a moment, before opening them and turning around to face Sergeant Donovan.

"Go on then," he prompted, folding his arms.

"Are you going out sir?" She asked, noting his heavy winter coat.

"I am Sergeant Donovan, so unless it's urgent I'll be going now." Greg was aware that he was being a little curt, but he wouldn't be able to focus on his work properly until he'd seen Sherlock and heard, yet again, that there were no new leads.

"Oh alright then, I guess it can wait until you come back," Sally sounded vaguely annoyed. Greg wondered if it was directed at him, then dismissed the thought. Sergeant Donovan always sounded annoyed.

"Right then," And with that Greg had stepped out the door, down a flight of stairs and into the brisk January air. He stuffed his gloved hands into his pockets and breathed shallowly, the cold air biting into his lungs. A quick cab ride and a short walk brought him to Sherlock's door. He knocked briskly, shuffling to warm his feet while he waited. Eventually after another knock and a ring on the buzzer, Mrs. Hudson let him in. Lestrade tromped upstairs after thanking her for rescuing him from the harsh wind. Sherlock was leaning over a table that had the crime scene photos scattered over it.

"Please tell me you've found something."

"Nothing new," Sherlock muttered, not taking his eyes from the photographs. "Killer is left handed, uses an all purpose kitchen knife, fairly easy to find, nothing we can do there. They're sold almost everywhere."

"Do you have _anything?_" Lestrade asked half desperately, half annoyed.

"Well," Sherlock trailed off for a moment, deep in thought. Lestrade waited for him to reply. He knew better than anybody that trying to rush one of Sherlock's deductions was like trying to make the sun rise faster. It would happen when it happened. "Oh!" The Consulting Detective gasped softly several moments later. He dug around in the papers for a moment, before pulling out a map, pinning it to the wall and jabbing several tacks into it. Lestrade saw the four crime scenes in thumb tacks. Then Sherlock was sticking pins into it, faster than he could really follow and Greg wasn't sure what he was marking anymore. Two final- what had Sherlock even stuck to the map? And he stopped, staring at the map.

"YES!" He shouted, leaping into the air, "It all fits don't you see?" Sherlock's shouting brought John in from the kitchen.

"Sorry, what's happened?"

"Sherlock's found something."

"Evidently,"

"Yes, yes! It all makes sense."

"Sherlock, what exactly is going on?" John asked patiently.

"He works at a hospital! There are only two possible hospitals that coincide with all of the evidence,"

"Sorry, what? A hospital, where'd you get that from?" Lestrade asked, trying to get information out of Sherlock was worse than pulling teeth sometimes.

"Elderly ladies, almost dead, all with fatal conditions,"

"Now just wait, the last one was fine."

"A minor detail that I'm sure will be resolved soon enough. John get your coat, we're going to pay a visit to the hospitals." And with that, Sherlock swept out of the room and John, after casting Greg an apologetic look, trotted after him. Greg swore and followed them out. Sherlock better not get himself killed because he still hadn't properly explained himself and Greg needed his evidence.


	2. Clumsy You

**AN: In which we realize the author has _no_ concept of the geography of London.**

Not too long after leaving the flat, Lestrade found himself out side of a large, ominous hospital. Sherlock had taken one look at it and declared it was the wrong one and they would have to walk to the other. The two cabs had gone, Sherlock as usual had insisted on his own, and walking would be faster and cheaper. So it was with lead filled shoes and a quick, icy wind blowing over his face, ruffling his silver hair, that Greg had begun to trudge away from the warmth the hospital promised, into the frigid day and towards the other hospital. Greg tromped past a pier, jutting out into A strange movement from the corner of his eye attracted his attention. He walked onto the pier, mildly surprised and pleased to see a white swan, waddling around on the far shore. He turned around to call to John, who he thought would appreciate it and had already walked on.

"John look there's a sw-" His call abruptly turned to a shout as he quickly pivoted back and lost his balance. Lestrade's arms pinwheeled desperately for a moment before he lost his balance falling face first off the pier. Greg felt himself break through the thin crust of ice and gasped as he hit the water, accidentally inhaling some of the lake water and choking. His mind was working frantically, but he didn't know what to do and he couldn't breathe. Greg kicked, powerful legs propelling him towards what he hoped was the surface and just when his lungs felt like they would burst, his head hit something solid. The ice. Greg groped around hysterically for the hole he knew he'd made when he'd fallen in. His hands only met more ice. Making a split second decision, Greg punched straight up into the ice, hoping to break through. The ice didn't budge. Black spots were starting to swim in front of Greg's eyes and he made another hurried choice. Flipping around, he placed both booted feet against the slick surface and kicked. Hard. He thought he felt the ice shudder. Feeling a renewed sense of hope, he planted two more solid kicks, rewarded when he saw light filtering down. Fighting to remain conscious, lungs screaming for air, he lunged towards the opening, clearing it and sucking in a breath before he fell back under. Invigorated by the oxygen, Greg grabbed the edge of the hole, pulling his head above the water trying to gasp in air as he coughed, clearing his lungs of the water he had accidentally inhaled. He was shivering wildly, his hands clumsily grasping the smooth ice. He couldn't feel his fingers and the cold, beyond it's usual trick of running down Greg's spine, had dug it's claws in. Every part of him was filled with numbing ice, making it hard to focus on what he had to do.Greg was still sucking in great breaths of air, arms sticking out of the hole he'd made, the rest of him still submerged in the black waters. _Get out, _He thought, _I have to get out now. _Greg was well aware of the dangers of water in winter. He'd been to any number of crime scenes where cold turned out to be the culprit. He shuffled around so he was facing the way he'd come, the ice was probably stronger towards the shore. Lestrade began kicking his feet, simultaneously dragging himself out with his arms. A loud crack and Greg didn't have time to think before he was plunged back into the algid lake. He managed to avoid swallowing any more water. He struggled back to the surface, heavy winter coat and boots weighing him down. Greg floundered, he couldn't feel anything anymore and he'd stopped shivering. He thought that was probably bad. Greg struggled towards the pier, he could almost make it. He fell back for a moment, exhausted, the cold sapping every ounce of energy he possessed. After what seemed like an eternity in a frozen Hell, Greg managed to get to the ladder, clinging to it for a moment before trying to pull himself up. He fell back into the water with a loud splash. Greg grabbed it again, and heaved mightily, still unable to lift himself, discouraged he slid back into the water, utterly defeated. Even he recognized that he wouldn't be able to pull himself out. He was simply too drained. Greg hadn't been energetic before he'd found himself here and the freezing waters had leeched away his remaining strength. So he did the last thing he could think of; Greg shouted for help. He wasn't loud, he didn't have the energy. After a few feeble attempts a face appeared over the ledge. A face that Lestrade was ridiculously happy to see. It was John.

"Jesus," The other man swore before turning and shouting for Sherlock. John lay down and reached towards Greg who extended his arm towards his friend, their hands nowhere near touching. He heard John swear again as he sat up. "Hold on Greg, stay calm, we're working on it, ok?" Greg nodded miserably, wondering if he was going to die anyway. John's head disappeared for several long minutes and Greg could feel himself getting sleepier and sleepier with every passing moment, his eyelids drooping. "Greg!" Greg's head jerked up, John's face had reappeared. "Please try to stay awake we've got an idea alright? Just sit tight for another minute." Lestrade noticed, dreamily, that John looked worried. He didn't understand why, he was fine, just a bit tired. He heard shouting. Sherlock complaining, John's voice, "Just give it to me!" Then John was back, dangling a length of blue fabric towards him, tied in a tight knot. "Ok Greg, I need you to slip this over your head and under your arms, can you do that?" The DI nodded, swiping at the rope unsuccessfully before finally catching it and securing it as John had asked. Before Greg really knew what was happening, he was being hoisted through the air, accompanied by the grunts of the two men pulling him up. It was painful and slow, his shoulder scraping against the concrete pier as they hauled him up. After an eternity of uncomfortable pulling he crested the top of the pier and was dragged onto it. John was leaning over him, peering anxiously into his half-closed eyes.

"Greg, Greg can you hear me?" Lestrade nodded sluggishly. "Ok Greg, I've called an ambulance they should be here any second. I'm going to try and take of some of your wet things, ok?" John ripped off his gloves and started unbuttoning Greg's coat. Lestrade was simply lying on his back, staring up at the murky gray sky and not thinking anything. John looked about he could see both hospitals from here, where the Hell was the ambulance. Sherlock's uncertain hovering wasn't helping his temper either. Somehow, and he wasn't entirely sure how he did it, John got Lestrade's coat off him, despite it being soaking and heavy and Lestrade's stiff limbs. He quickly pulled the DI's shirt off, much to Greg's dismay.

"Oi! What do you think you're doing? Give that back," he growled, struggling to sit. John pushed him back down, firmly.

"Lie still. You're soaking wet and severely hypothermic. I know what I'm doing."

"I'm fine," Greg protested weakly as John pulled off his own coat and draped it over the DI.

"You're not fine. Be quiet. Sherlock give me your coat too please," his tone brooked no room for argument. Sherlock pulled off his long coat and handed it to the doctor without complaint. John wrapped the additional protection around the Detective Inspector. And then, miraculously, the sound of sirens filled the air and brief minutes later, paramedics were swarming around Greg, despite his continued protests. They wrestled him easily onto a stretcher and in one last ditch attempt Greg called to John. "I'm going back to my office!"

"No," John replied, drawing the word out, "You're going to the hospital." The paramedics finished loading the DI into the ambulance and asked which one of them was coming to the hospital, to John's surprise. Sherlock volunteered. And as the ambulance sped away, lights flashing, John realized that Sherlock had forgotten his coat, leaving John to carry everything to the hospital.


	3. Keeping Company

John watched Sherlock sleep quietly in a waiting room. For once Sherlock wasn't the bored one it was John. He had arrived at the hospital to a small man in a wheelchair being taken away by the police. Sherlock had refused to provide an explanation, instead promptly folding himself into a chair and instantly falling asleep after taking his coat back. That had been several hours ago, which John felt was a good enough excuse to wake Sherlock.

"How exactly did you solve the case? Please? I'm dying of boredom and I'm curious." Sherlock smiled lazily at him as his eyes opened.

"What you are currently expressing is merely a fraction of my boredom on a daily basis." Sherlock mumbled, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair.

"Yes alright, I'm sorry. Now will you please tell me?" Sherlock smirked at him.

"Of course I will. Can't miss a chance to show off. It's practically what I live for," Sherlock muttered. "It was obvious really, sexual sadist. The throats were cut _very _slowly, the heart engraving merely made it more obvious. The direction of the laceration revealed the speed and handedness, left in this case. The choice of elderly women as victims suggested impotence, either sexual or physical. All of the women had ultimately fatal diseases except for the final victim. A call came from Molly as I entered the hospital. As I suspected, she'd just been admitted to a hospital, no diagnosis, but evidently had a rather large brain tumour. I spoke to hospital staff who said they'd seen her leave with her nephew. Her wheelchair bound nephew. Generally worked nights, male nurse. Nothing special. I expect he showed up at their houses claiming to do follow ups and murdered them. Case shut." John blinked slowly,

"Hang on, how did you know it wasn't the other hospital?"

"Too big, hospital like that, more patients than it can support, definitely not one that's going to be doing follow ups, no handicapped parking in the staff lot, nothing to indicate possesion of certain parking spaces. You're going to ask if he could have wheeled himself to work, not likely considering that the nearest housing is a five point two minute drive away, too far for him. Makes no sense. So, obviously, this was the only other alternative." Sherlock finished, taking a breath.

"Fantastic," John muttered, rolling his eyes. Sherlock smiled at him as a doctor swept through the doors and into the waiting room.

"He's awake now and in stable condition and he's been asking to see you, so you can go visit now." John thanked the doctor and slipped into Lestrade's room, closely followed by Sherlock.

"How are you doing?" John asked, taking the chair beside the bed.

"I'm fine," Greg muttered.

"Yeah, I heard that earlier." John smiled.

"I need to get out of here so I can go do my job. Put in a good word for me John?" Greg asked, making the largest, pleading eyes John had ever seen. John shook his head.

"Nope, you're staying put. You do know you almost died?" Greg rolled his eyes.

"Yeah an' I told you, I'm great now. There is a serial kill-"

"Wrong," Greg glared at Sherlock as he interrupted.

"What do you mean I'm wrong, last time I checked-"

"Was several hours ago. I've apprehended the culprit since then."

"What!" Greg asked loudly, nearly shouting. "What do you mean? has he been arresting people?" He turned to John, panic lighting his eyes.

"Sherlock stop being an ass. No he hasn't we called the police." Greg looked visibly relieved.

"Ok I can deal with that." He looked back at Sherlock, "Will you please tell me how you did it now?"

"No, we were told not to upset you. I think telling you would be a violation of that promise." Greg lifted a tired hand to rub his cheek.

"Do you ever plan on telling me?"

"Maybe when you buy me a new scarf." Sherlock shot back.

"What are you talking about Sherlock?" Greg asked tiredly. He really didn't have the energy for this right now. In response Sherlock dug a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a long, blue length of fabric. Lestrade recognized the 'rope' they'd used to pull him up with. Sherlock's scarf had a long vertical tear, evidently having gotten snagged on the concrete. Greg chuckled as Sherlock looked affronted.

"Oh that's easy, I can sew that up as soon as I get out of here." Sherlock looked suspicious, but nodded, leaving the scarf curled carefully on the nightstand. A nurse bustled into the room.

"All right, all right that's enough. Mr. Lestrade needs his rest." John grinned obligingly before apologizing and ushering Sherlock from the room. Just before John dragged him away completely Sherlock leaned back into the room, "I refuse to work with any of the other Detective Inspectors, Dimmock was a nightmare. So you'd better get back to work soon." And then he was gone, leaving a tired, but smiling Greg, drifting slowly off to sleep.


End file.
